Well, maybe not, if you went to the University of Florida, where national championships in basketball and football are picked up with the ease of a trip to the national championship candy store.

“I’ll have one of those, oh! And one of those!” it’s rumored the Florida provost said to the kindly hair net-wearing gentleman behind counter.

But the university I attended, Yale, isn’t one of those schools anymore. It’s one of those schools that’s so old, so obvious, it’s become almost invisible. Sure, people know that some presidents past and present went there, and maybe some think-tanky types of people, and maybe even quite a few self-entitled snobs, but beyond that, the school’s an enigma. It’s “Harvard, Yale, whatever.”

Most people, quite understandably, don’t know what city it’s in (no, not Cambridge — that’s the other one).

Anyway, so call it a shock to the system that within the month, my good old alma mater is in the spotlight.

And the reason it’s in the cultural crosshairs is for the very reason it’s so enigmatic: For its quirky traditions. Traditions that are as foreign to these Pacific soils as Borat is to the Otis elevator.

First came the film “The Good Shepherd.” If you haven’t seen it, I won’t give anything away. Suffice it to say that in the movie, there’s some tongue in cheek, er, mudslinging at the expense of Yale’s legendary secret societies. Skull and Bones, in particular. More than one friend has since approached me and asked if that

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